By Dawn's Early Light
by The One and Only Chilibro
Summary: John Marston has never trusted his government, and never will. But when Marston receives a message from the government, 'asking' for his help,  none too kindly, I must add  he must become what he tried to escape for so long. Read and review, please.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is basically made up by me on the spot, so forgive any bad writing. This is also my first fanfiction, so also forgive me if I occasionally break canon or something like that. I have the game itself, but I've already finished the game, and I'm just too 'lazy' to go back and replay the missions. (Plus the first time I did that, half my weapons disappeared, so...) Well, enjoy! And please, read and review. I would very much appreciate it.**

Chapter I

The early morning sun rose sluggishly, slowly bathing the weather-beaten, untended land in orange light. John Marston watched this with a small smile on his face, his scars seeming to deepen in the solemn light. Blinking his eyes a couple of times to clear his head, Marston looked around him, looking for his house. Marston smiled as he found it, not because of the house itself, but because of the two figures he saw standing on its front porch. The first one, a gangly figure, was waving an arm. The other one, which was slightly shorter, seemed to have hands on hips.

Marston sighed as he looked at his family. It couldn't get better than this. "Giddy-up," Marston muttered to his horse, gently kicking it in the flanks. The horse whinnied softly, getting the message. As it started to walk, Marston guided it towards the house, not wanting to rush the journey home. The faint sound of a horse's hooves on dry dirt snapped him out of this reverie. Instantly, Marston's hand went to his Cattleman revolver, and he looked over his shoulder at the sound. _Who in the world would invade a family's home so early in the morning? _Marston thought, then realized how ironic that sounded, all things considering. _Oh, right. I would. Or at least I did._

Mentally shaking these thoughts to the back of his mind, Marston watched the horizon as what looked to be a man on horseback crested a hill. Marston's eyes narrowed into slits and he put a hand over them as he watched the man ride his horse hard. Even though the man was still a good quarter of a mile away, Marston could easily see the ballooning foam around the horse's mouth. Marston frowned at this. Whoever drove their horse that hard had important business.

And indeed, the man on the horse did have important business. Hired by the government to send a message, he was really just a boy fresh out of the house, about eighteen or nineteen. A beard was just starting to form on this boy's face, and he was proud of it, as was his right (or so he said). A wide-brimmed rancher's hat was planted not-so-firmly on this boy's head, and was held in place by the boy's right hand. Images of dollar signs swept through his head as he rode, and his smile was wide and filled with crooked teeth. The boy, whose name was Jeremiah, saw his man about the same time he saw him, and he waved with his right hand, hoping to God his hat stayed on. Unfortunately, Jeremiah's hat immediately flew off his head, flapping away in the wind. Jeremiah swore, looking over his shoulder with a glare. "Damn too-big hats!" he shouted.

"Whoa, there, boy!" Marston yelled, regaining Jeremiah's attention. When he turned back around, he noticed he was only about twenty feet away from Marston; too close. With a startled yell, he pulled back on the reins of his horse, extracting a surprised neigh from the mount. The horse in question reared back, tossing the unprepared Jeremiah off and onto the hard dusty ground below. Marston winced as he heard the thump of the man smacking the ground.

"You alright, there, boy?" Marston queried, calming his own horse before dismounting. Jeremiah groaned in reply, weakly raising up a thumbs-up. "Good! Now get up off of your ass and tell me why you're here." Jeremiah groaned again, slowly, but surely, raising himself off the ground.

"Damn horse," Jeremiah muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "First I lose my hat, then my horse goes crazy...not a good start to my day." Sighing, he began to walk toward Marston, already digging in the pockets of his pants, searching for the letter he had been given. Marston's frowned deepened. Usually letters arrived by official courier...not by haphazard teenagers. _Government, most likely, _Marston thought, with not just a little bit of malice.

Jeremiah noticed the look in Marston's eye, and suddenly lost the ability to speak. "Um, uh, here's a, um," he stuttered, fumbling for the letter. It took the poor man about five minutes to get the letter out, and outstretch his arm. Finally, he settled for a simple, "Letter." Marston nodded, grunting his 'thanks,' swiping the letter from the teenager's hand. "And, uh, don't shoot me. I'm just the messenger." Marston glanced up at Jeremiah, his eyes narrowed once again, but this time in suspicion.

_Yep, definately the government,_ Marston thought, rolling his eyes. Reaching behind him, he found the hilt to his all-American Bowie knife. Although it was most likely a bit of overkill, Marston shoved the knife under the flap of the envelope, slipping it open with one smooth swipe. Jeremiah stepped back, eyeing Marston with even more nervousness than before. "Ah, don't worry, boy. I won't hurt you. In fact, why don't you run along, so I can read this message in peace?" Marston asked, making it sound more like an order than anything. Without waiting for a response, Marston headed back to his horse, shoving the just recently opened letter in the back pocket of his own pants.

Jeremiah instantly took to Marston's idea, turning around and finding his own horse. Even though it was breathing hard, Jeremiah mounted it, and spurred it with a good deal of strength. Reacting to the command, the horse sped off into the distance, leaving a trail of dust behind it.

Jeremiah didn't want to be around when Marston read that letter.


	2. Chapter 2

By Dawn's Early Light

Chapter 2

Halfway across the state, another, entirely different man, was sitting behind a mahogany desk, wearing a neatly pressed three-piece suit and immaculate bowler hat. This man goes by the title of Agent Miller, and he is not pleased.

Miller sat very still, his hands folded on the desk. He stared impassively at another man sitting across from him, who, in stark contrast to Miller, looked nervous as all hell. Slowly, Miller shifted his position, making himself slightly more comfortable. It was a small movement, but it hinted at the human inside the cold machine. "Are you telling me, Peterson, that you sent a damn _farmer's boy _to deliver what might be the most important message of your career so far?" Miller asked, incredulous. The man named Peterson reluctantly nodded his head. Miller sighed in disbelief.

"Dammit, Peterson. I gave you a job, and I expected you to carry it out yourself. I _didn't _expect you to slip the letter to some teenager, before plopping your lazy ass down at a bar somewhere!" Miller exclaimed, his voice rising in volume. The man named Peterson looked over his shoulder, embarrassed. Miller was otherwise unaffected. The whole office was used to Miller's tirades by this point; they pretty much tuned them out.

"Look at me, Peterson!" Miller yelled, and he immediately got the other agent. "I don't want this to happen again, do you hear me?" he asked, and Peterson nodded his head. "I don't think you do. You need to be taught a lesson." A look of indignation crossed over Peterson's face as Miller finished his sentence. He was being treated like a five-year-old child!

Miller thrived on the look he now saw on Peterson's face. It was sick kind of thrill, really, but he didn't care. He loved seeing agents cave under pressure in front of him, or even burst into temper tantrums. Miller hated that anyone could get into the Blackwater Police Agency so easily, so he took it into his own power to find an excuse to get rid of the rascals and ragamuffins.

"I know. You get to spend a day with Liam." Peterson cringed at this statement. Everyone in the Agency, new or old, knew who Liam was. He was a fat, eighty-five year old man with a legendarily short temper. So short, in fact, that he was once pushed into a rage by a picture that was listing to the side five degrees.

Needless to say, you did not want to get stuck with Liam.

But, here Peterson was, being threatened with 'Liam time'. "But, sir, Mister Liam is...well..." Peterson began, trying to find words he could use to describe Liam that wouldn't warrant his immediate dismissal.

"I know what Liam is. But that's besides the point. The point is, you disobeyed my orders, and you must be punished for them. Now go. Your time with Liam starts tomorrow at ten o'clock sharp," Miller ordered, shooing Peterson away. Peterson nodded, looking defeated. The poor man shuffled out the door, forgetting to close it behind him – yet another thing that irritated Miller. He sighed, standing up from his chair, wincing as his back popped. He then walked slowly over to the door, waiting for the feeling to return to his legs.

As Miller closed the heavy mahogany door, he sighed. Pushing forty-five, Miller was not the eager, young agent he had been more than twenty years ago. His hair had already begun to gray and fall out, and frown-lines had already settled into the corners of his mouth. His reactions had also started to fail him, which explained why he spent most of his time sitting behind a desk instead of being out in the field, taking criminals down.

Miller's sense of style had also drastically changed over the years. Back in the day, Miller was seen as your local vigilante, wearing denim and iron, whereas now he wore a monkey suit. This was also expressed in his office. Miller's office was an emotionless hub, painted gray and pictureless. There were no bobbles or knickknacks sitting on Miller's desk – just a stack of papers, waiting for him to sign or read them. The only window in the room was closed shut, leaving the only light in the room to be generated by an electric lamp.


End file.
